


DRAFT

by MickletheKoala



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 13:36:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16975563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MickletheKoala/pseuds/MickletheKoala





	DRAFT

If you could ever ask her about what she remembers about the night of July 15, 1949, she'd tell you that what she first recalls is waking up. Making breakfast and sending ●■●■●■ to school. Working, and going grocery shopping, normal activities.

The last thing would be bright lights, the revving of an engine. A crash and then- 

 

Nothing.

 

\------------------------

November 23rd, 1963. 

There are a lot of things you could call Olliver Evan. Wendelss. You could call him a university dropout- which is true- you could call him a pot smoker -sometimes- or a bad worker. But you couldn't say he isn't observant. That's why when a 7 ft (2.13 meters) tall man wearing rain stained, shredded clothes walked in to Gary's, he immediately thought to dial the police. Of course, he waited until the guy was in the restroom to pick up the receiver and dial the few all important digits. 

It was then he was hit with a tough decision. Gary's gas and snack was hardly the only convenience store around the block and business hadn't been all that great. Add in a lame story about him, the heroic cashier being afraid of a greasy scumball and calling the cops, well. Not a great recipe for business. Or the future of his career. He sets down the receiver before dialing anything and attempts to play it cool, turning up the latest hit by HIS personal heroes, the fab four. He also puts up his “Sorry, on lunch” sign.

And then the creature from the black lagoon rings his bell, once, twice and he’s soon to be told off by Olliver because it clearly says on the counter that he's on break. He turns around, beyond irritated by the incessant ringing and looks at the hulking mass of oh my god.

Olliver lets out a brief, shrill scream before flying backwards in fear hard enough to knock him to the floor. Monster mash seems to have a mask of maggots for a head and is dripping, DRIPPING them all over the linoleum floor. This, Ollie can see through the large gap on the bottom of his counter. 'I just cleaned those bloody floors,' he laments before quickly returning to the task at hand. With surprising agility, he does a sort of kipup off the floor before leaping across the counter and making a mad dash for the door to the bathroom.

He quickly realizes his lapse in judgment (the door to outside was far, far closer, and a push too) and suffers for it. An enormous hand grabs him by the neck and he's being lifted right off the ground in a rather spectacular fashion, his windpipe grinding as the creature SQUEEZES. Dark spots already dance across his eyes from the force and everything is spinning, he feels he’ll piss himself and pass out by now and the pressure is climbing and climbing, building and building, the blood rushing through his skull, a cacophony of pain when-

 

Ding.

 

Was that?

 

Ding.

 

Ding.

 

Ding.

 

Ding.

The bell! Someone’s ringing the bell at the gas pumps! He just needs to call for help, and he'll be saved before he dies three months from his 19th birthday. It's all the energy in his whole body to scream and when he does, it's louder than the time Betsy Midler set his pants on fire.

“HELP!! PLEASE HELP!!’’ Oh, god his voice is so scratchy, and his throat burns like fire, but he continues screaming until he hears a familiar but now heavenly

Ring!

The front door swings open and he sees a shadow while his eyes droop shut. As he fully loses consciousness, he can feel blood seeping from his right eye, along with a strange light sensation.

 

 

\--------

"Hey. Heyyyyyyy. Kid. Get up. Hey." A foot lightly steps on his face. "Kiiiiid. GET UP! GET! UP!"

His eyes snap open, and he's where he was when he was being strangled, only he's on the floor now. On his back. With a boot on his face. He groans and pushes said foot away before fully remembering the maggot faced monster that had been ruining his throat. It's when Olliver sits up a tad too quick he feels the absolute agony that is his torn throat. And his eye. It feels like how he'd imagine an exploded grape to feel. If a grape COULD feel that is.

He whimpers and holds his head, his thumb brushing against his eyeball, which usually isn’t there, on his cheek. Before he can have a third world freak out, an unfamiliar voice rasps, "Kid."

He squints up at the stranger who must have saved him and recoils again in shock. Doing so makes the blood that's pounding through his head and ears trigger his eye to bleed more, forcing weight onto what he assumes is a dangly nerve? And thus, it hurts even more. Some tears escape his eyelashes, and he crawls away from this new, yet equally terrifying stranger. He's crawled about an inch when his thigh is stepped on, the stranger pressing down then grabbing his shirt with his hand and pulling him back, his detached eye painfully swinging.

 

The man kneels.

 

Olliver is at a loss for words. Waxy, stiff skin is pulled over a sharp, long face, his one ear has what appears to be a bite taken out of it. He's got mid neck length; greasy shaggy black hair and his nose is as long as Pinocchio’s. He's wearing a ripped brown potato sack with brown dungarees and has only one full hand. The other one is bone. Just. Bone. 

 

The man creature whistles upon seeing his eye but doesn’t deem it worthy of comment. "You're from around here, correct?" The man -or rather, ghoul- asks in a very Beatles-esque accent and he really cant help himself from blurting

“Are you a scouser?” 

 

"Scouse? Yes. No. Yes, if that's what you think or actually, yes, I am indeed scousian. I've decided. Now answer MY question." Olliver idly finds that term a tad odd, says nothing of it.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Oh! Sorry, yes, I'm from around here. This is actually my best friend's friend’s dad's uncle's gas station. I work here every weekend."

"Today’s Tuesday," the man says, though he sounds unsure.

"Erm, no it's not. It's Sunday. See?" He points to a large calendar on the wall, Sunday not yet marked down.

"I see. Then you'll be my guide." He grabs Olliver's shirt, hoists him up and drags him out the door. There's a large pickup truck, rusted and in disrepair parked by a pump with the driver’s door swung open. 

"Um! Excuse me, sir where are we going? I- I don't consent to this kidnapping!" 

 

"Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there, son. Now pump the gas. Into that, uh truck." He waves a skeletal hand at the pickup because of corpse.

 

"Is-is that yours?"

The zombie gives him a look as though he’s grown six heads. He repeats the question, voice mocking before answering with a harshly stated ‘of course not!’

Just as Olliver is soon to protest the man’s theft, he’s interrupted. He can see a thin eyebrow lift through a gap in the zombie’s hair, as though he can read Ollie’s mind. Maybe he can. "Does it seem like the rotted mess in there will care if I borrow his ride?" He's sneering as he says this, teeth stained. As Ollie shakes his head, the creature hums a sound of triumph. "Now, take me to your house."

 

"My my house? As in, my home where I live?"

 

The zombie looks exasperated, though Olliver can’t really see that, the eyeball he had somehow forgotten about was beginning to throb and itch. "No your house where you die. Yes, your damn house!"

 

"Well um, okay but…" he pumps the gas with haste into the truck that has a few maggots crawling about, resisting the urge to scratch at his gory socket. He distantly thinks that he’s glad he's not driving.

"But what?"

 

Olliver is sheepish. "I live in a flat."

 

The zombie shakes his head, uncaring and beyond irritated. When Ollie has finished with the gas, he’s hauled to the driver’s seat. 

 

"You're not driving?"

 

He laughs with his head tossed back. "Do you think I'm in any state to drive? My arm as it is? It's a shock I can move it, really."

 

The torn hand reminds Olliver of the aching in his own skull and neck, the pain previously abated from his brief adrenal soar. "Well, thing is, I don't think I can drive much either." With that he tips forward, slumping into a downward dog.

The corpse scowls and scoops him up, bones grinding and twisting with the process. He tosses him in the passenger seat and starts the car, leaving the gas station and the maggot man behind. 

 

\--------

Olliver cringes as he stirs, bright lights aggravating the aches in his skull. Briefly he had held hopes it was all a dream, but the throbbing in his eye tells him otherwise. He then notes the brightness is coming from the all-white room he's in, there are tubes in his arm. He takes deep breaths, ignoring the panic he feels and reassures himself it's only a hospital he's in.

 

How he got here is a mystery, as is the time; due to a clockless wall. Luckily, he spots a nurse call button next to his bed, and smacks it without hesitation, wanting to leave as soon as possible. He just hopes they haven't called his parents; it'd be another reason for him to come back home and work under his father’s overbearing thumb. No thank you.

 

Olliver brightens when a 20 something American nurse in candy stripes comes in, all sunny smiles and a big waist and chest just like the movies. "How may I help you, sir?" She checks the monitors, and looks at him, chestnut hair contrasting nicely with her ruby lipstick, her chest on a coy sort of display.

"Oh…hiii. I um, i was hoping I could leave. I've got to get back to work, ya know?" He smiles his most handsome smile, the one girl's in school would swoon at and resists the urge to gawk at her plump, peach colored breasts.

 

She looks a bit uneasy from said smile. "Well, I'll go consult the doctor, tell him you're awake and we'll go from there. Would you like some water before I go?"

 

He shakes his head, a bit befuddled by her words and her reaction to his appearance. "No thank you."

 

And he's left to wait.

 

\-------------

Some time passes and then a short, round man with a mustache and spectacles enters. He's obviously the doctor. He addresses his clipboard, then looks at Olliver. 

"Olliver Wendelss?"

"Yes, uh sir, that’s me."

"Mmhmm. And you’re only 18, that’s a tad young for ****" He writes something down. "Hmm, I wonder, can you see?’’ He prods his cheeks with a bonier finger than Ollie would’ve expected from such a plump old codger.

He’s a bit miffed by it, to be honest. "What do you mean? Yes, of course I can.’’

"Both eyes?" He approaches even closer now, too hot breath on the top of Ollie’s head, and covers the left one. The one that feels like a grape, but swings like a grape vine.

He’s scared to admit it, but he’s completely blind in the right one. 

There’s a very distant squelching sort of popping sound and suddenly there’s light again. "Can you now?" The doctor murmurs this and Ollie can feel his breath on his face despite the fact that he’s not close enough.

"Ummm, yes! Though it's, er, kinda blurred."

The doctor, Dr Williams clicks his tongue and writes something else down.

"Brilliant. And do you ever plan on ■■■■■■■■?" The good doctor’s tone is sour as he asks.

His thick eyebrows furrow in confusion at the static ending of the doctor’s sentence. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Would you just ■■■■■■!?"

"Why are you shouting? God, my head," He cries, cradling it.

"■■■■ ■■■■ ■■■!’’ The doctor warps and twists and shrinks and shrivels until he resembles the candy striper from before, voice still demonic as she screams.

"Please! Please stop! Stop shouting!" She twists again, this time stretching to impossible heights, seemingly 12 feet tall, maggots making a home in her not so pretty face.

The maggot monster comes to his bedside and grabs his shoulders. It's snarling now and shakes him wildly, screaming and Olliver can't understand and his head is aching and the noise won’t quit and the creature won't shut up-

"WAKE!!! UP!!!!"

Olliver is startled awake by the zombie screaming in his face, sounding much like the doctor from his dream. He can practically feel the blood swirling in his aching skull as he wakes up, eyes no longer so pained, but still sore. He feebly puts his hands up in front of his face, mumbling that he's awake.

"Where am I?" He slowly sits up as the stranger backs away, planted on his arse.

"Your flat, where else? I’ve been waiting to use your amenities, but it seems my legs and the rest of my body have lost all function. Oh, and you’re welcome." 

Ollie tilts his head. ‘’What for?’’

‘’Your replaced eye, duh. Don’t get used to it, its not yours so it’ll eventually crumble like sand.’’

And just like that, he’s too weary to further question the strange events happening or that have happened. "Ok. So what am I meant to do for you with my… amenimies?"

The monster snorts. "Obviously, you need to bathe and dress me until I can move again. And its amenities, you’re welcome once again." The zombie says, voice entitled.

Ollie crosses his arms. "And why should I do that? Maybe I'll just call the police and report you." A sort of rude thing to say to the man, or creature that saved your life and fixed up your eye. Temporarily.

It or he, laughs, head tossed back. "What would you *say*? That a dead man saved your arse from a **computruerunt**? Please. In fact, call them in front of me, it'll give me a good laugh while you soap a loofah to wash my rotted cock."

Ollliver is taken aback by this statement, but quickly ignores it. "Fine. But I'm not washing your cock." He grabs the man around his chest, wincing at the smell of him. "Ugh! You reek like dead meat."

He raises a brow, though Ollie can hardly see that. "Sorry I didn't keep clean while stuck in a tomb, love."

"A tomb?" Those are pretty pricey, it could mean he has a lot of dosh. Olliver should play nice for now, maybe he'll be rewarded. "What's your name anyhow, since I'm skipping to third base already."

"Lloyd."

"Oh. Hey, that’s Welsh, yeah?”

"I'm surprised you know the origin, most don’t. Full name is Welsh and Irish if you believe it. Lloyd Cruahlaoich." His accent shifts a bit Irish as he says it, clearly proud of his mixed heritage.

"Well, its uh, something to meet you. Maybe nice. My names Olliver but you can call me Ollie." They’ve got that in common, he thinks. Both of mixed heritage, Welsh too. He has finished stripping Lloyd by now and deposits him in the chilled porcelain tub. He's surprised to see him flinch from the cold, being a corpse and all.

"Sheesh, Ollie, old pal you could run some hot water before sticking me into the freezing thing."

"Sorry." Ollie quickly turns the dials, testing the water until it's a warm temperature. He ignores the temptation to put it on solely hot, as a payback for mocking him and exacerbating his headache.

"Thank you."

"Oh," he says, surprised. "You're welcome. I’m half Welsh myself. Other half American, though you couldn’t tell. I'm just gonna go grab a glass of water, fancy one?"

Once again to his surprise the black-haired man says yes and nods at the new information about his new acquaintance (Ollie didn’t think zombies got thirsty) , before using the limited strength in his body to recline back, sinking into the small puddle of warm water.

Olliver quickly returns, two glasses in hand. He sets them both down then up his medicine cabinet and pulls out a full bottle of prescription pain pills. This peaks Lloyd's interest.

"What's that for then?"

"Uh, my eyes, actually." He takes three of them out, knowing full well he's taking thrice the recommended amount, and swallows them all at once. He also ignores the fact that most of the pain is almost fully gone, choosing instead to focus on the man in his tub.

"Where'd you get em from? They're not exactly your regular drug store meds."

Olliver turns to look at the bathing man. "They're from a leg injury a few years back. I just held onto em, for a rainy day of sorts."

Lloyd hums, in clear disbelief but simply says in the poshest accent, "I do hope you’re ready to cleanse me now?” He then switches back to his scouse, without skipping a beat. “You could actually ‘op in, there's plenty of room for two."

He looks positively rotten. Olliver says yes.

\----

After ten minutes of cleaning Lloyd, Olliver hears waves crashing. There's the sound of mist and the distant sounds of people laughing and smiling, although you can't hear a smile can you.

He's four years old and today is his baby sister's birthday. His parents are both on the sand, da teaching her how to build a proper sand castle, mum getting sunscreen for Ollie's tender baby flesh. She'd said stay put, then left him on the water’s edge while she went to fetch his lotion. He burns easy.

But he'd seen a mermaid, and he just had to follow her into the water. Her tail was so lovely, and she sang so sweet. He walks behind her, chubby legs struggling to find traction on the waters floor. His head is just barely above water and then as quick as a flash, he's dragged under. 

And he can't breathe. But he can still see the mermaid. She's smiling at him, so nice and pretty. But he can’t hold his breath long, doesn’t she see? Why isn't she helping him? He's just a baby, his mother always reminds everyone. He can hear her distantly as tears run from his cheeks, his mum. Where's her baby? Her baby boy. 

The mermaid is dragging him down now, ignoring his cries, as strong arms are pulling him up. He's once again calm, though his head feels it'll explode from the pressure. The arms are the victor, and he looks up at his father's worried face. Now da’s crying. He never cries. He's hugged close and kissed on the head and when he looks to see the mermaid for a last time, she's gone.

Mums crying. It's nighttime? Ollie doesn't understand what they're saying amidst tears and his big brother Rhys is upset too. He's got puffy red eyes. 

Where had you gone, Olliver? Where were you?

He doesn't know any longer.

 

The year is 1927 and one Lloyd Cruahlaoich is on a hunt for work. Marion, his previous employer had yet to send him his two weeks’ pay, putting Lloyd in a tight spot. He’s got five kids and a wife at home to feed for god’s sake. He sighs, putting a dampened cigarette between his thin lips, his body weary as he digs in his pocket for matches. He apparently doesn’t need to, as a small hand reaches up, offers a steel lighter to him. 

It’s a child. A beautiful one at that, the kind painters made cherubs after. Reminds him of Gretchen, his youngest daughter, though the child standing before him is a boy. Lloyd crouches down, accepting the offer, and inhales the smoke deeply.

“Thanks,” he says, smoke billowing from his mouth as he speaks, like some sort of human dragon.

‘’No problem, mister,’’ the child says, tucking the rather expensive lighter into his ratty coat pockets. He doesn’t seem to be the child of a wealthy family, so Lloyd figures he’s stolen the lighter. 

‘’What are you up to alone out here, without your momma?’’ The child tilts his head as Lloyd questions him, and Lloyd gets an uneasy, yet familiar sense of dread as he looks into the smoky charcoal eyes of this impish boy.

‘’I don’t have one, Lloyd Cruahlaoich,’’ the boy says, in a voice far too deep for anyone, let alone a child. It causes Lloyd to take a step back, cigarette leaving his loose grip. That voice and those eyes are far too familiar, yet he can’t place it.

‘’Do remember our deal,’’ it says, as Lloyd stares puzzled, before backing away and out of the alcove. The child isn’t visible when Lloyd looks back at the cave. He walks towards his home, occasionally glancing behind him to see if the boy is there, and along the way sees an advertisement for work. He goes in and to his belief, gets the job – no interview required! It puts a pep in his step and he forgets all about the strange, ominous child until that night.

 

A chilled hand is cupping his forehead and Ollie is awake. Blinking, he idly wonders just when and how he passed out. Then the same hand cups his cheek ever so briefly, before snatching away, seemingly startled by Olliver’s stirring. He sees it’s the zombie, or Lloyd, he remembers his name being and is mildly surprised from how tender his touches are. Takes all sorts he supposes.

Awkwardly, he cracks an unsure grimace of a smile at Lloyd, who appears to be straddling his now fully dry and dressed form and wonders how he should proceed with this situation. He needn’t worry, Lloyd kneels around him, gets his bearings and then stands up.

“Enjoying our rest, were we?” He queries, suddenly and decidedly not English. Perhaps American? Either way, he sounds different, and the phrase sounds strange coming from such a voice.

“I, er, suppose so heh. What’s, uh what’s happened to your accent then?”

Lloyd raises a hand, waving him off as Ollie sits up further, hoping to stand at some point. “I’ve no clue what you mean,” he says, clearing his throat. “All sounds the same to me.” And there it is again! He sounds the same as before, no trace of the brief American drawl.

Well, it would sound the same to a demon or dead type of thing, Ollie thinks but deigns not to say aloud. He stands finally, legs stiff from the dead weight of the other man sitting on him for a period of which Olliver does not know, nor wish to know. He stretches, his neck and back creaking in a relieving and soothing way.

“So,” Olliver says, again unsure of what to say or do.

“So?” Lloyd mimics, eyes jovial, probably uncaring of the terrible day poor Ollie’s been having. Well that’s fine and good for him, but Ollie happens to have a life to get back to and all and he doesn’t need some guy-

“What was it then?” Lloyd asks, voice impatient for some unknown reason. 

“What was what?” Ollie asks, a dumb expression on his owlish features.

“You said so, so don’t ask me what’s running through that head of yours,” he says, scowling.

“Oh.” He says and scratches his head. “What do we do now?”

“WHAT about, lad?” 

“Well, I assume we ain’t just gonna lick our wounds over tea time after all that’s happened. And you haven’t yet told just what exactly is going on!” He says, voice raised in indignance.

Lloyd pays him no mind, exclaiming, “Oh tea! ‘ave you got some then?” 

“Tea!? That’s all you’ve got to say? I don’t even know you, you, you’re just some strange undead stranger in me ‘ouse!”

Lloyd leaves him there, in his dimly lit bedroom, to the kitchen for his- no Olliver’s- tea. Ollie isn’t that quick to follow; the strange man has already found his way to the small space Ollie has for cooking and the like when he’s caught up. 

Olliver isn’t sure whether to be offended or amused when he sees the other man stood on a stool, rummaging through Olliver’s cabinets for tea. He decides on a bit of both, amused more than the former. “Having trouble, shorty?”

Lloyd jumps, Ollie stifling a laugh from the sight and clearly failing from the look on the raven-haired man’s face. “Very funny,” he says, still English to Ollie’s mild relief. Strange, each voice and accent suits him well, while Ollie can barely stand his one voice. 

He isn’t jealous. Not at all.

“Can I help you then?” 

Lloyd nods, climbing off the stool and Ollie can see now just how short his elder is, head below the counters. Must be no more than 5 feet. Ollie sweeps the stool away with his leg and easily retrieves the large painted ceramic box his mother had gifted him six months prior, filled to the brim with a variety of teas. He gingerly sets it on the counter, fishing a few silk tea bags out at random and closes the lid. 

To his right, Lloyd is pulling two mugs from the dishrack, the kettle filling with water. He places the bags in the mugs while Ollie puts the now full kettle on the stovetop, the two of them in a surprisingly amicable silence. When everything is set up, he looks at the other man, drinking in his features. The natural light softens his sharp cheekbones and crooked nose, he’s almost handsome. 

Ollie shakes his head at that. He clears his throat, cheeks a bit pink from his previous train of thought and says, “Hungry? I, er, know I am.”

“Hm? Yes, thank you. Have you got anything about?”

“Sandwiches alright?”

Lloyd nods, before sitting back on the abandoned stool, leaving the strawberry blonde to make his sandwiches. “Didn’t really wanna say, but I was starving for a bit of nosh.” 

Ollie snickers. “Modest, are we? Watching your girlish figure for dear husband?’’

The elder rolls his eyes. “Oh piss off. And uh no lettuce, if you please.”

“As you wish.” He doesn’t put lettuce on the raven-haired man’s sandwich, assembling them both quickly. “Tired of the ol iceberg from all your salads?” 

Lloyd snorts, “Come off it, boy-o. Say, you got any crisps?”

“Eating me outta ‘ouse and ‘ome you are,” he whines but relents. “Bottom cabinets.”

The zombie man bends just a bit and opens both cabinets, peering inside for the little cellophane bags containing the salted snacks. In the far right theres a bin of them right next to some old bags of spuds and rice. He smiles at the particular brand of rice, something about it familiar and pleasant. Finished with his cabinet search, he shuts the doors and stands up, quickly returning to his stool. He scoots his stool to the little bar Ollie has set up at the other end of the counters, eagerly awaiting the food. He feels like he hasn’t eaten in weeks, months or possibly years.

Thankfully, Olliver has finished his sandwich assembly and has plated them too, and then the kettle whistles and Lloyd grins at the timing. Olliver slides the sandwiches at him and grabs the red-hot kettle, before cursing as he quickly tosses it into the sink.

“Alright?” Lloyd asks, noticing at the red marks on his companion’s hand.

“Yeah, fine, bloody thing burnt me.” He runs some cold water on his hand, careful not to let the cool water stream on the still hot kettle.

Lloyd cuts in and grabs the kettle by it’s hot handle without flinching, then pours it onto the awaiting teabags in the mugs. He then dumps said hot kettle back into the sink, away from Ollie of course and grabs the younger man’s wrist. 

“Lemme ‘ave a look at that.” Ollie extends his arm, granting Lloyd’s request and sighs in pain as the other man prods the small burn. “Not too bad,” he remarks before icing the burn. “You wouldn’t happen to have some peppermint oil, would you?”

Ollie nearly says no, before remembering the small care package his nan had sent him filled with little bottles of various essential oils. He nods and tells Lloyd their location, assuming he means to apply some to the burn. He then wonders why he’d do that, since he has a burn on his hand, not dry skin. Nonetheless, he returns with the small glass bottle full of peppermint oil and a glass of water. He pours a couple drops in the cup, then soaks up the concoction with a random kitchen cloth. Ollie inhales as the rag is applied, expecting a burning sensation even worse, but is instead surprised when it numbs the little mark instead.

“Thank you, I didn’t know you could use it for that.”

‘“No worries,” Lloyd says, tying the wet cloth around Olliver’s hand. “Let’s just eat now, I’m famished.’

Ollie agrees and they make their way to the counter, settling into their meal.

\--------------------------------

Once they’ve finished their respective plates, (three bags of crisps between them, Ollie a bit shame faced having eaten two and then a bit of Lloyd’s) they idly sip their teas.

“So,” Ollie begins once again.

Lloyd arches his one visible brow, waiting for a follow up.

“How’d you lose your ear?” He mentally curses himself for asking such a random and rude question but brightens when the elder answers.

“Oh, that. Lost ‘er in a fight with some rando angel cunt.”

Olliver then spits his tea, a giggle bubbling from his lips. “Where’d you come up with that one?” Lloyd gives him a flat stare, making it clear he’s not joking. “You’re kidding. Even,” he begins, and is interrupted by something smashing through his window. “SHITE!” He yelps, jumping from his seat, knocking it over in the process. He looks to Lloyd who has disappeared out the smashed window, to give chase it would seem.

“Oh bloody hell,” Ollie mutters while he gets his coat to follow, hoping it’s just some kid and not another throat crushing, maggot monster. He knows he’s most likely wrong about this.

The front door is left open as he rushes after the stranger, lungs burning as he makes his way into the dark night.

 

 

~


End file.
